


Through the Looking Glass

by JhanaMay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, M/M, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5867884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a routine case, just a simple salt and burn, so against his better judgement Dean agreed to let Cas handle it on his own. Two days later, Cas isn’t responding to calls or texts, so Dean and Sam drop everything to go find out what kind of trouble the angel has gotten himself into this time. Spoilers through episode 11x05.</p><p>If you're not interested in sexy times, the first chapter is a complete Teen-rated story and can be read without the second.</p><p>Part of the 2016 SPN Reverse Bang</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've done a reverse bang and it was a lot of fun. I was lucky enough to get my first pick for the art and had a great time coming up with a story to match it. It actually gave me a second idea for a story, so don't be surprised if you see another story with a similar theme in the next few months.
> 
> The story is based on artwork by [peanutbutterthenjelly](http://peanutbutterthenjelly.tumblr.com/post/138665883992/warnings-case-fic-spn-reverse-bang-title).

 

[ ](http://s102.photobucket.com/user/kirchnsr/media/hands_zpse1op50si.png.html)

Growing up, cooking was always more of a matter of survival than pleasure for Dean. Sure, he was good at it, but he had to be. It often fell to him to make sure Sammy was fed, so he had to learn ways to turn bland, unappetizing food out of boxes and cans into something a picky boy would eat.

These days, though, the kitchen has become a safe place. The sizzle of bacon in the pan and the drip-hiss of the coffee pot provide a soundtrack to the thoughts Dean only allows himself to entertain while he’s preparing food for his little family. The feel of a spatula in his hand is somehow just as comforting as the weight of his Beretta.

There’s a noise behind him as Sam and Cas amble in the kitchen. Sam’s hair is still wet from the shower he took after his early morning run, but Cas is in his holy tax accountant get-up as usual. At least he’s been foregoing the trench coat inside the bunker in deference to Dean’s constant nagging. Without the coat, he looks less like he’s about to flit off somewhere.

“Did you make turkey bacon?” Sam says, reaching into the refrigerator for the orange juice.

“Against my better judgement,” Dean snarks, nudging the paper towel covered plate with the back of his hand. “Pancakes are almost done. We’ve still got some of that fruit shit you got at the farmer’s market last week so grab that if you want it. Don’t forget the syrup.”

“Can I carry anything for you, Dean?” Cas asks, standing uncomfortably just inside the door. Although he’s been staying in the bunker with them for almost two months, he still hasn’t gotten the hang of just _being_ yet. The guy always seems to be on edge, like he’s waiting for some shoe to drop that Dean isn’t even aware of holding.

Dean glances over his shoulder. “You can take the coffee out,” he offers. By now Cas knows how the brothers take their coffee and has even been having a cup with them on rare mornings. He takes down three mugs. Today must be one of those mornings.

Flipping the last of the pancakes onto the plate, he follows them. The huge butcher block in the kitchen is plenty big enough for them to eat at, but Dean prefers the expansiveness of the library to spread out with a meal.

Dean drizzles a puddle of sugary syrup over his stack of pancakes and pushes the real pig bacon he made for himself off the platter onto his plate. Cas sits beside him, a single cup of steaming coffee at his elbow. He takes small sips from the mug, watching the brothers eat.

“So get this,” Sam says, pushing the laptop toward Dean. His own stack of pancakes is smeared with dollops of fruit preserves and edged with turkey bacon. It makes Dean sick just looking at it. “I found a couple leads. We’ve got what looks like a pretty standard salt and burn up in Hastings and something downright weird out in Loveland.”

Dean swallows a mouthful of pancake and washes it down with a gulp of coffee. “I’ll take weird for a thousand, Alex.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Couple dead hikers, or rather pieces of hikers I guess, turned up out in the National Forest there. Locals figured at first it was a bear or a mountain lion or something, but the last two chunks had these long spikes sticking out of them. No one has a clue what they are. They even called in zoologists from Denver, but closest they can figure is they’re like giant porcupine quills.”

He angles the computer screen so Dean can see the photo of a man holding a handful of slender quills easily as long as his forearm. No porcupine shot those. Dean munches on his bacon as if dismemberment is normal breakfast conversation, while Sam pulls up a map of the area marked with the locations where the bodies were found.

“Okay,” Dean acknowledges. “You got weird. What’s the deal with the salt and burn?”

“Last weekend a local grave was disturbed. The guy buried there was accused of assaulting four women in town. He was picked up, but was killed during a fight in the local prison before he could be tried. Since then, three of the women have been killed under suspicious circumstances, like locked room and not a mark on them circumstances. Sounds like a ghost to me.”

Dean frowns and does some quick math in his head. “Shit. Reason to think there’s gonna be more bodies in both cases, but we’re lookin’ at a solid six hours to Loveland. It’s only about an hour to Hastings, but either way whichever direction we go leaves the other one wide open.”

“We could split up. One of us go to Hastings and take out the ghost while the other heads straight to Loveland.”

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be stupid. Whatever the fuck that thing in Loveland is, it’s a two-man job. We’ll just have to swing up through Hastings and knock out the salt and burn before heading across to Loveland.”

Dean almost forgot Cas was sitting next to him until he hears the deep throat clearing, bringing both brothers’ attention to him. “I have a suggestion,” he says, looking at Sam instead of Dean. “I could go to Hastings and do this salt and burn, as you call it, and then meet you in Loveland.”

Dean shoves his plate away, no longer hungry. The sick feeling he gets every time he thinks of Cas going off alone again makes the food churn in his gut.  “That’s ridiculous,” he barks, knowing that it isn’t.

Cas turns serious blue eyes toward him. “Why? It seems like the most reasonable use of our resources.

Dean looks across the table to Sam, but his brother just raises one eyebrow. There won’t be any help coming from that corner. “Fine,” Dean barks, shoving his chair away from the table. “You can take the pick-up.”

To stop himself from saying more, he gathers up plates and mugs until his arms are too full to carry anything else and heads toward the kitchen. He turns back at the last minute and snaps, “But you check in twice a day, you got it?” At Cas’ nod, he stalks out of the room.

 

[ ](http://s102.photobucket.com/user/kirchnsr/media/t2%201_zps0mxdf5fp.jpg.html)

Dean scrapes the dishes into the garbage and dumps them into the sink to soak. He knows that Sam will wash them, because he always does, and Dean just wants to get away.

He pushes his bedroom door closed behind him with a little more force than is strictly necessary. It’s been almost three years, but the thought of even having a bedroom of his own, let alone a door to close behind him, is still new. He should be packing for Loveland, but instead he flops on the bed and pulls his headphones over his ears. Thin Lizzy immediately fills the space in his head so that he doesn’t have to think about Cas heading off without him.

It’s not that he doesn’t think the angel can take care of himself. Cas has proven that assumption wrong time and time again. It isn’t even about being separated from the guy, though that thought causes a pang in his chest. They’ve been working cases for weeks while Cas recuperates from Rowena’s attack dog spell, so it isn’t just distance between them that is bothering him.

Whether he wants to admit it or not, the possibility of Cas leaving and not coming back has Dean in knots. Every time Cas has had the opportunity to stay with Dean, he has chosen to go away. After Stull Cemetery, in Purgatory, while they were hunting Metatron. Oh sure, he always had a good reason, but time after time, he’s chosen to be wherever Dean isn’t.

The pounding beat of the classic rock reverberating through the headphones helps Dean intentionally avoid thinking about that brief moment when Cas was human. Dean had the chance to keep him by his side and didn’t take it. Regardless of what seemed like good reasons at the time, turning Cas away will always be one of Dean’s biggest regrets.

Now that Cas is here in the bunker, with no big mission and no reason to run away, there’s a part of Dean that is hoping they’ll finally have a chance to figure out what this pull between them is. He’s had friends before, people he would trust with his life, but he has never thought about them the way he does Cas. Being in such close quarters day in and day out, Dean has been hoping that he’ll finally get up the nerve to say all the things he’s been avoiding.

There’s a heavy knock on the door, but it doesn’t open. “We’re loading up. You coming?” Sam calls.

Dean heaves a sigh and rips the headphones off his ears. “Yeah, gimme a minute,” he answers. Duty calls. 

Two days, three more corpses, and a brutal battle later, Dean drops his torn, bloody shirt into the pile next to the bed. There’s no use even trying to salvage it. Dammit, he really liked that shirt too.

“I’m gonna need help sewin’ this up,” he grunts, twisting gingerly to try to see the four-inch-long gash in his side. “It’s too far back for me to reach.” Blood, dried dark brown, flakes off when he runs the back of his hand over the gaping edges. He pops the top button on his jeans and sits on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots.

Sam just nods, pulling his own clothing off his battered body and stumbling into the bathroom. After three decades of hunting, it still surprises Dean that there are monsters in the world they haven’t seen before. Rather than a werewolf or a wendigo tearing up hikers in the Roosevelt National Forest, it turned out to be a manticore. The grotesque creature had the body of a lion, the facial features of a human, and shot the long quills from its tail. It was a monster that will be featured in some of Dean’s freakier nightmares, that’s for sure.

Pulling his phone out of his shredded jacket, Dean checks his messages. No new texts or voicemails from Cas since last night. He had spared a few moments this morning to worry about the angel missing his check-in, but then the creature attacked and there wasn’t much time to think about anything but survival. Now that the job is done and he and Sam are in one piece, all he can think about is the million scenarios of what might have gone wrong.

He taps on Cas’ speed-dial and waits as it rings. Cold dread curls in his stomach when it goes to voicemail. Instead of giving in to his fear, he schools his voice and leaves a stern message directing Cas to call him. Once he hangs up, he sends a short text as well, just to cover all the bases.

By the time Sam comes back out of the bathroom, he looks a little more human. At least he’s no longer covered in monster bile. “You want to shower first, then I’ll sew that up?” he asks, motioning toward the wound that has started seeping sluggishly again.

“Sure,” Dean relents. Before disappearing into the bathroom, he leans one hand against the door frame and says, “You heard from Cas today?”

A moment of concern crosses Sam’s face, but he quickly wipes it away. “No, but I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He was supposed to check in twice a day and he’s missed two check-ins now.”

Sam shrugs. Dean can tell it’s supposed to look nonchalant but Sam’s shoulders are tight with tension he’s trying to hide. “He’s an angel, Dean. He probably just got caught up in the case, but if it’ll make you feel better I’ll track his phone while you’re showering and see if I can figure out where he is at least.”

Dean nods his acceptance. It doesn’t alleviate any of the anxiety building in his chest, but it will have to be enough. He sheds the rest of his clothes and steps under the warm spray. By the time he’s finished washing his hair, the puddle of water at the bottom of the shower is tinged pink, though he knows it isn’t all his blood.

After slipping into a pair of worn sweatpants, he’s toweling his hair when he walks back out into the bedroom. Sam’s laptop is propped on a pile of pillows next to him on the bed. “Anything?”

“Looks like he’s at a motel on the south side of Hastings. What’s weird is that according to the history, he hasn’t left since last night,” Sam relays. He looks apologetic, like he knows Dean is going to interpret that the worst possible way.

Dean scowls. “So he either took a break on the case to have a pay-for-view marathon or he’s in trouble.”

Sam sighs. “Could be nothing, but yeah, seems suspicious.”

Dean doesn’t respond. Instead he just starts stuffing things back into his duffle bag, then sits down on the bed to pull on socks and his boots. He knew it, knew it was a bad idea for Cas to go off on his own. Anything could have happened. There are still angels out there who are gunning for him because of Metatron, because they released the Darkness, or just for any damn reason at all.

“It’s almost a six-hour drive to Hastings from here,” Sam points out evenly.

Dean twists around on the bed to glare at his brother, but cuts himself off before he snaps. His voice is mostly calm when he says, “Yeah, but we still got daylight. We could get most of the way there then grab another room so we roll into town fresh in the morning.” Mostly he’s just sure he’ll never be able to sleep wondering if Cas is okay, so he might as well be driving.

To Dean’s surprise, Sam doesn’t argue. “At least let me sew that up first,” is all he says.

Getting stitched up is no more pleasant this time than it was the last two or three hundred times he’s had it done. He’s a little woozy from the pain but he can’t drink too much to dull it because he still needs to drive tonight. Once Sam fastens the bandage he wrapped around Dean’s abdomen, he just packs up his laptop, changes back into traveling clothes, and stuffs their ruined clothes into a garbage bag. He makes it to the Impala before Dean does. Sam doesn’t comment when Dean slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, but Dean can see his concerned eyes and furrowed brow every time he turns his head.

“No reason not to head out tonight,” he states again, pulling onto the highway.

“No, not at all.”

“Might as well use the daylight.”

“Of course.”

“That way we only have a couple hours of driving in the morning and we’ll be fresh when we get to town.”

“Right.”

Dean slams his hand down on the seat and turns toward his brother. “Knock it the fuck off,” he snaps.

Sam widens his eyes slightly. “I agreed with you,” he points out steadily.

Dean scowls. “You’re humoring me.”

Sam laughs, full out laughs, pulling another glare from Dean. “Of course I’m humoring you, because you’ll bite my head off if I don’t. I know you’re worried about him. I am too. So we go and check it out. It’s not a big deal.”

“Fine,” Dean retorts, sure that there’s some kind of hidden meaning behind Sam’s words but too keyed up to decipher it. Instead he shoves a mixtape into the radio and turns up Bob Seger.

The miles melt away under them and it is just past midnight when Dean finally finds a motel for the night. He would have kept going, but the exhaustion of the fight today is catching up with him and he feels like he’s about to pass out. Won’t do Cas or anyone else any good if he puts the Impala in a ditch.

They fall into bed as soon as the door closes behind them and they’re up at the crack of dawn to get back on the road. Coffee and a packaged danish from the mini-mart across the street from the motel is as good a breakfast as they have time for. There’s still another two hours before they reach Hastings and they need to put highway under the wheels before Dean’s apprehension chews right through his stomach.

Traveling through Nebraska is an endless cycle of corn fields and tiny towns. Hastings comes up fast after nothing but green and quickly lightening skies for over an hour. The town is like a million others they’ve seen, a mix of tidy residential neighborhoods and businesses surrounded by farms. Dean guides the Impala through the streets to the south-east edge of town, where the Grand Motel sits squashed between a truck-stop and a John Deere dealership.

Even though there’s a spot right in front of the office, Dean drives the length of the mud-brown building and parks next to the beat up red pick-up truck. It’s sitting there, looking completely innocuous, like it isn’t a beacon pointing to the fact that something has happened to Cas.

Already in their Fed suits, the brothers walk across the lot, Sam stealthily taking EMF readings as they pass the rooms. There are a couple of spikes, with the biggest one outside of room seventeen. Dean makes a note of it.

“Morning, gentlemen,” the short, squat man behind the counter calls as they enter the cramped office. “Checkin’ in or out?”  His eyes are beady and his ruddy complexion suggests that morning sobriety is not on his bucket list.

“Neither,” Sam says, taking charge as if he doesn’t trust that Dean can do the job when Cas’ safety is on the line. Dean bites back his anger. “We’re supposed to be meeting up with another agent in town, but he’s not answering his phone. Agent Bundrick? That’s his red truck at the far end of the lot.”

The man scrunches his bushy eyebrows together into a frown. “That’s weird. He came in, ah, yesterday? No, day before, askin’ about the woman stayin’ in room seventeen, but he didn’t check in or anything. I figured he got what he needed and left.”

“And you didn’t wonder about the truck?” Dean barks, annoyance clear in his voice even though he tries to tamp it down. “Strange truck just sittin’ in your lot for two days and you don’t notice?”

The man’s face scrunches farther, like it’s going to cave in on itself. “Listen, mister. This ain’t no four-star hotel. We don’t got valet parking. People write their license plates on the slip when they check in, but I don’t study who belongs to what car. Just figured the truck belonged to one of the guests who’s been here a couple days.”

Sam steps forward, angling himself between Dean and the clerk before Dean can snipe back. “Okay, so what can you tell us about the woman in room seventeen?”

The guy shrugs, shoulders brushing against the fat of his neck. “Normal broad. Middle age, brown hair, nothin’ out of the ordinary. Soccer mom type.”  He flips through the index card box on the counter. “Nancy Smaith, accordin’ to her driver’s license. Outta Des Moines.”

“Traveling alone?”

“Didn’t ask, but there wasn’t anyone with her when she checked in.” He gives another small shrug.

Sam and Dean exchange looks, then Sam nods curtly. “Thank you. We’re going to check in with Ms. Smaith.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Dean lets the door slam behind him on their way out, but the small act of petulance doesn’t make him feel any better. “What’s the connection between the mystery woman and our spirit?” he grunts as they make their way back across the parking lot. “Never heard of a ghost rentin’ a room before.”

“Maybe it isn’t a ghost. Demon possession maybe? EMF spiked outside the room, so there’s definitely something weird about the place.”

Dean stops outside of room seventeen, Sam on his heels. There’s a quiver of fear at what they might find on the other side of that plain red door. Dean steels himself and knocks heavily, the sound echoing through the empty parking lot. “Ms. Smaith? FBI, open up. We have some questions for you,” he calls, then presses his ear to the door to see if he can hear anyone moving around inside.

There are no sounds and after a few moments, Dean shrugs. He pounds on the door again with the side of his fist, but he’s not really expecting an answer. The pounding is more a show to distract from where Sam has crouched down behind him to pick the lock.

It only takes a moment for Sam to pop the lock and then they’re both pulling their guns from their waistbands. Sam stops, hand on the doorknob, and waits until Dean is in position to cover him before twisting the knob and pushing the door open.

A wave of heavily scented air hits them. Dean recognizes sandalwood, maybe myrrh, along with something else pungent and cloying, and it puts him on edge. The room smells like heavy duty spell work. Not exactly what he was expecting for a basic salt and burn.

With the curtains closed, the room is shrouded in shadows. Dean keeps his pistol raised while he waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There are still no movements, no indication that the room is occupied, and most importantly, no sign of Cas.

Sam pushes the door open wider, his own gun raised as he steps past Dean into the room. Dean shoves the door wide enough to allow more light into the room. It’s enough to determine that it is, in fact, empty, so he feels for the light switch. Sam glances back as light floods the room, and something reflective on the carpet catches Dean’s eye. There are symbols of some kind painted in a circle just beyond the bed and Sam is about to step right on them.

Dean launches himself across the room, tackling Sam with a loud _whompf_ as the breath is knocked out of them when they land in a heap on the bed. “What the hell, Dean,” Sam exclaims, struggling to extricate himself.

“Sigils,” Dean barks, pointing off the edge of the bed before Sam can shove himself forward. “You almost waltzed right into them with your damn moose legs. Could be a spell trap.”

Sam glances down at the glistening red marks on the carpet and rolls off the opposite side of the bed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Dean pushes himself upright and peers down at the strange markings. “Looks like some kind of stylized Enochian, right?”

Sam crouches, hand hovering over the symbols in a way that makes a hollow ache of dread in Dean’s stomach. Before he can snap at Sam not to touch, Sam pulls away and shoves his gun into the pack of his waistband. He digs out his phone and starts to take photos, both as a whole and each individual sigil.

While he works, Dean starts a thorough search of the room. Other than the strange symbols, there’s no sign that anyone has been here. No luggage, the bed is undisturbed, and no sign of Cas. Dean skirts around the symbols on the floor and pushes the closet door open. Nothing. He reaches through the open bathroom door and flips on the light in there. It’s as empty as the rest of the room.

“I’ll see what I can find on the web, but we might need to head back to the bunker to look these up,” Sam says, standing up.

“Shit,” Dean curses from the bathroom doorway. The sick feeling in his stomach is even stronger. “It’s over two hours there and back and we’re no closer to a lead on where the hell Cas is.”

“We could split up,” Sam offers, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. The look on his face shows that he wants to say more, but he wisely bites his tongue at Dean’s glare. 

Though he hates the idea of splitting up, Dean doubts there’s a lot of resource material on Enochian magic in the middle of nowhere Nebraska. “Fine,” Dean relents reluctantly. “Take the truck and head back to the bunker. I’ll rent this room so we can keep the sigils intact and snoop around town, see what I can find out about Nancy Smaith outta De Moines.”

Sam’s mouth twitches, then settles into a thin line. Dean meets his eyes, daring him to argue, but Sam looks away. “Okay. I’m gonna use the bathroom before I head out. Go make sure we can keep this room. I’ll send the pictures of the sigils to your phone.”

Dean steps out of his way as Sam brushes past him into the bathroom. He skirts back around the markings on the carpet. He’s stepping into the bright sunlight when the bathroom door slams open and Sam calls his name frantically, “Dean! Get in here. Now.”

He opens his mouth to make a joke, something childish about Sam’s inability to take a leak by himself, but when he looks back into the room, Sam’s panicked expression stops him. He sprints across the room, jumping over the sigils and slides to a stop in the bathroom doorway.

“Look in the mirror, Dean.”

Dean steps forward, confusion swirling through him, and braces his hands on the edges of the sink. He turns to look into the mirror and feels his whole world tilt on its axis. Rather than reflecting back the dingy motel bathroom, the mirror shows a plain white room. There’s nothing remarkable about it, just three walls with no door or windows. Nothing, that is, except for Cas standing in the center of the room, his eyes wide and as frightened as Dean has ever seen them.

Despite knowing what he’ll see, Dean turns his head and looks behind him. The bathroom remains, with its dated ‘70s aqua tile and paisley shower curtain, and no Cas. He turns to look into the mirror again. The room is plain, bare, as if it exists only as a holding cell for the angel. Cas’ mouth opens and he appears to speaking, but there’s no sound through the mirror, like a television on mute.

 

[ ](http://s102.photobucket.com/user/kirchnsr/media/maninmirror2%201_zpslp2n2meu.png.html)

“Dean.” Sam’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him lightly. Dean turns to him, heart racing at a frantic pace.

“He’s trapped, Sam. Those symbols. They must have been some kind of spell that trapped him in the mirror. A witch or another angel or something, I don’t know, but we have to figure out how to get him out.” His voice rises in volume as he rants, the last words a shout that has Sam jerking back. “We have to get him out.”

Sam moves away into the bedroom and Dean fights the urge to race after him. Cas steps forward, hand coming up in front of him as if he’s about to touch something. Without thinking, Dean raises his own hand and presses it to the mirror, the glass cold and completely solid beneath his fingers.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat as Cas takes another step, the palm of his hand meeting Dean’s as if he were Dean’s reflection. Dean meets Cas’ wide blue eyes, and it’s as if they are looking at each other through a window rather than a mirror. There’s fear in Cas’ eyes, the same shell-shocked look they had right after Rowena released him from the attack dog spell. Dean’s heart beats erratically and he aches with the desire to feel Cas’ skin against his.

“Here,” Sam says, interrupting the weird tableau. He holds the tablet from the bedside table, words written on it in Sam’s blocky script. _It was a witch? Enochian magic on the floor?_ He holds it up to the mirror.

Cas’ eyes flick from the tablet back to Dean’s, then he nods twice. Sam tears off the top page and scribbles again. _Do you know how to break it?_ That gets an exasperated shake of his head. _Is the witch still in town?_ Cas shrugs.

“For Christ’s sake, Sam, ask him if he’s okay,” Dean barks, snagging the tablet from Sam’s hand. He quickly jots _Are you hurt?_ on the paper and holds it up. Cas’ expression softens and he shakes his head. His mouth is moving, the words forming too quickly for Dean to read his lips.

Dean scribbles on the page again. _Hang tight. We’ll get you out._ Cas closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them and nods. He presses his hand to the mirror again and Dean curls his fingers against the glass as if he can grasp Cas’ hand.

When Sam steps back out into the bedroom, Dean follows. “Son of a bitch,” he barks. He slams one hand against the wall, narrowly missing the vintage light fixture.

“Dean, I still need to go back to the bunker,” Sam says evenly. “We don’t have anything on Enochian magic here, and whether Cas is trapped or not, we still have to figure out if the witch is still in town.”

Dean wants to argue. He wants to rant and rave and smash the mirror and pull Cas back through it into his arms. Instead, he tamps it down, lets the emotion go to ice under his skin, and nods. “Yeah, okay. Do it. I’ll see if I can figure out what the hell Nancy Smaith has to do with any of this.”

Sam pauses at the edge of the bed, the sigils on the floor between them. He opens his mouth to say something, probably condescending and chick-flickish, so Dean cuts him off. “Go, Sammy. The quicker you get to the bunker, the quicker we figure this out.”

Though he still looks like he wants to say something else, Sam nods again and then he’s gone. Dean lets out a long breath and fights back the desire to break something. He fucking knew it, knew that letting Cas go off on his own wouldn’t turn out well. He stalks back into the bathroom and picks up the tablet. _Gonna find out if the bitch is still in town. Be back soon._  

Cas shrugs as if to say “I’ll be here,” when Dean holds up the tablet. His mouth is moving again and he holds one hand up to his ear, but Dean isn’t sure what he’s trying to say. It’s so damn frustrating.

On the way out, Dean stops in the front office and explains that Nancy Smaith skipped out and the FBI is taking over room seventeen as part of their investigation into the recent murders. The clerk is no more interested in the conversation now than he was earlier. He even slides a key across the counter to Dean before turning back to the game show on the little TV under the counter.

Dean’s first stop is at the local police department to look at the original case and the most recent murders. Although Hastings isn’t that large, it boasts an actual police station and a tiny conference room, where the chief is nice enough to let Dean spread out with the original file while he pulls the most recent information for the new murders.

Lyle Newman was a piece of work. First assault and battery charge at age sixteen when he beat the shit out his twelve-year-old sister. First rape charge at seventeen, when he was accused of assaulting his youngest brother’s babysitter. The rest of his rap sheet is a series of drunk and disorderlies, breaking and entering, and other random misdemeanors, until the most recent serial rape charges that landed him in jail.

“Well, guess that’s that,” Chief Wilks says, his bushy mustache twitching. He slams a pile of folders down on the table next to Dean. There are four. When Dean looks up at him, he continues, “Yep. Brianna Walters was found dead in her apartment about an hour ago. She died sometime last night, coroner said. That’s all four of them, the women who came forward against the bastard. This sicko got a partner or something?”

Dean’s stomach drops. Shit. Why didn’t they think of that? “Can you get me any info you can dig up on a Nancy Smaith? She may be involved in this.”

While one of the officers accesses the records, Dean checks his messages. A text message from Sam let him know an hour ago that he made it to the bunker, but no luck yet finding anything about the trap spell. Dean sends him a simple okay back rather than the scathing response he wants to give. He never should have listened to Sam when he said that Cas would be fine.

“Nancy Smaith went missing from Des Moines two weeks ago, three days after Newman died and two days before the first murder. You think she’s our killer?” Chief Wilks announces, letting the door slam into the wall behind him.

Dean grimaces. “I’d bet on it. If you dig, I bet you’ll find that she was in a relationship with Newman.”

“Still don’t explain how she killed them.”

It does if she’s a witch. “No, it doesn’t, but there’s a pretty good chance she’s left town now that the last woman is dead,” he says instead. Even if they look, the Hastings PD will never find her. “I’ll pass on the info to the field office.”

There’s a sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of Cas stuck in that damn mirror for the past two days, so Dean distracts himself by calling Sam on the way back to the motel. “I mean, I knew witches were evil, Sam, but this lady is a sick fuck. I guess she blames them for his death or something. Disturbed grave last weekend, right before the murders started, so I think she raised his spirit. Either way, they ganked the last one yesterday, so she was probably long gone before we even hit town.”

The sound of a chair sliding across the library floor echoes through the phone, then the swish of pages turning. “Makes sense, I guess,” Sam mutters. “Cas must have been getting close, so she lured him there and trapped him. She had to know that even a powerful witch is no match for an angel.”  The unspoken words, that Rowena had been plenty strong enough to take out Cas with the power of the Book of the Damned behind her, hang in the air between them.

Dean grunts a response that is less affirmation and more disgust at the whole situation. “You got anything?”

“Getting closer,” Sam responds. “I found a couple old files on Enochian magic that describe trap spells. I just need to locate the original works in the archive and I should be able to figure out how to reverse it.”

Dean bites back a growl of frustration. “Fine. I’m headed back to the motel to check on Cas. Call me as soon as you got somethin’.”

Dean fits the room key in the lock and pushes the door open. Since he left the lights on in both the bedroom and the bathroom, he can immediately see that the room is unoccupied. He goes immediately into the bathroom without even bothering to bring in his duffle from the car. Hopefully, they won’t be here long enough to need it.

He releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Cas is there, standing in the center of the white room. He still, as if he’s frozen, but he looks up when Dean approaches the mirror. His lips twitch up into a smile that brings his blue eyes to life. He approaches the mirror and holds up his hand like before. Dean puts up his hand to meet Cas’, but freezes when he takes a good look at the edges of the mirror.

While the mirror is still crystal clear and showing the white room in the center, the outer two or three inches blur into the reflective sheen of an actual mirror. When he puts his hand up to cover Cas’, the bottom edge of Cas’ hand is obscured by the reflection of the tacky bathroom behind him. They are standing in the same spot as earlier, and the mirror was definitely not reflecting the bathroom then.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean exclaims, slamming his other hand into the wall next to the mirror. Cas’ eyes widen in surprise and confusion. He must not be able to see the mirror closing on his side. Unable to look Cas in the eyes, Dean strides out of the room and rips his phone out of his pocket.

“Sam, tell me you have something,” he demands when Sam answers on the third ring. “The fucking mirror is closing, Sammy. We’re going to lose him.” His voice breaks. “I’m going to lose him.”

“How much of the mirror is left?”

Dean pictures the mirror closing, fading into a reflection of the ugly bathroom and taking Cas with it. He’ll never get a chance to say it, to say all the things he’s been carrying around for years. Since the Mark, since Cas was human, since Purgatory, since Stull, since that barn in Pontiac, Illinois, since Hell. All the times he could have told Cas how he felt and never did and now he’s never going to get that chance because the mirror will swallow him whole.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice echoes through the phone, snapping him back. “How much, Dean? How much of the mirror is left?”

“The outer three inches or so are faded back to plain mirror,” he forces out past the lump in his throat.

Sam makes a humming noise, but Dean can’t tell if it’s good or bad. “Okay, okay. We’ve got time. If the mirror keeps fading at this rate, we’ve got at least five or six hours.” Dean must make a noise of dismay, because Sam’s voice sharpens again, “Dean, I’m close, okay? I found the book with the spell. Now I just need to figure out how to reverse it. We’ll get him out.”

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean says, his voice cracking on his brother’s name. “Okay. You get here, okay? Soon as you got the answer, you get here. I, Sam, we can’t lose him.”

“We’re not going to lose him, Dean. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” There’s silence and Dean isn’t sure if he’s waiting for a response. “Dean?”

Dean swallows hard, one hand pressed to his forehead. “Okay, Sam, I hear you.”

There’s silence after Sam hangs up, but Dean just stands there. He’s afraid to go back into the bathroom, afraid of what he’ll see. He lets himself just stand there, breathing deeply to stave off panic, then sets his shoulders and walks back into the bathroom.

Cas is still standing close to the mirror and his eyes widen when he sees Dean. Something must show on Dean’s face, because Cas looks concerned, brows furrowed. Dean picks up the note pad, which is down to only a few pages. _Sam’s got something. He’ll be back soon. We’ll get you out._

Cas nods, eyes still boring into Dean’s. Again, they press hands together through the mirror and Dean imagines that he can actually feel the heat of Cas’ skin. The prickling behind his eyes tells him that he’s moments away from losing control, so he quickly steps back. He spins and drops onto the toilet, where he can still see the mirror but he can’t see Cas.

He thinks of all the words he’s been carrying around, just under the surface. All the times he has wanted to reach out and touch, to take Cas’ hand and wrap his fingers through the angel’s and just hold on. He may never get that chance now.

“What the fuck, Cas?” he says, not even aware he was going to speak until the words are reverberating in the bathroom. “Why couldn’t you stay in the bunker?”

The words fade away, but now that he’s talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You never just stay where I can keep you safe. Would that be so bad, to just stay with me?”

He buries his face in his hands, the words muffled. “You always leave and I just, I can’t take it anymore, man. I want you to stay. I want to figure out why I can’t breathe when you’re not around.”

His eyes burn, but the tears won’t fall. He’s exhausted, with barely five hours of the sleep in the last two nights, the fight with the manticore, and the mad dash across two states last night. The crushing fatigue makes his arms and legs feel like lead, so he slides off the toilet into a heap on the floor. He cradles his head against the bathtub, cushioned by his arm.

“We could make up your own room,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes. “You could have a space of your own. I’d even get you a laptop so you can watch Netflix and not have to borrow Sam’s.” He imagines Cas in the bunker, a permanent fixture rather than the ghost he’s been the past few weeks.

“Or you could—” He stops to clear his throat. “You could stay in my room, if you wanted.”

He thinks about that, about Cas staying in his room, maybe even curled up in his bed at night. Is that what he wants? Not just Cas in his life, but also in his bed? He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t. What the hell? Cas can’t hear him anyway, and this might be his last chance to say the words out loud. “’Cause that’s what I want, man. I want you to stay in my room. I want to, ah,” the word gets stuck in his throat until he forces it out, “kiss you, if you want that. Maybe hold your hand, but I’ll deny that if you tell Sam I said it.”

He takes a long, shuddering breath and wipes the wet corner of his eye against his shirt. “I just, dammit, I need you, Cas.”

He glances up at the mirror. There’s another half an inch of reflection around the outer edge, causing a vice grip to tighten around his heart. Why is he destined to always be in this spot with Cas? One step away from losing him. Dean thinks about dragging himself out to the bed, but if this is going to be the end of the tragic story of Dean and Cas, he’s going to finish it as close to his angel as he can get. Instead, he curls up in the space between the toilet and the bathtub and stares at the horrible aqua tile.

Dean isn’t sure how long he sits there, daydreaming. He imagines lying in his bed with Cas’ body a comforting weight wrapped around him. He pictures hunts with Sam and Cas fighting over who gets to ride shotgun in the Impala. His thoughts veer in a more explicit direction and his face heats up as he thinks about exploring Cas’ body. He’s seen the angel without the trench coat, bare-chested even, several times, but it always involved someone stabbing or carving into him. He’d like the opportunity to touch Cas’ body and not have it be because the angel is injured.

 At first, he doesn’t realize that his phone is buzzing over the ringing in his ears. When he recognizes that the noise is accompanied by a vibrating sensation against his hip bone, he quickly digs it out. “Tell me you got something.”

“I got something. I know how to reverse the spell. I’m on my way, Dean. Left the bunker fifteen minutes ago. I’ll be there in an hour. While you’re waiting, bring in salt, holy water, and that gold bowl. I’ve got the rest of what we need.” When Dean doesn’t respond right away, words trapped in his throat, Sam says, “Dean? Are you there?”

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m here. That’s good, Sammy, that’s, fuck, thanks, man. Hang up and fuckin’ drive. We’ll never get him out if you wrap yourself around a pole.”

Dean grabs the tablet and hastily scrawls a message. _Sam is on his way. We’re getting you out._   He flips the tablet toward the mirror with a wide smile.

Sam actually beats his hour estimate by almost fifteen minutes, which is impressive considering he didn’t have the Impala under him. The ritual turns out to not be complicated at all. Using the gold bowl, they make a heavy paste of salt and holy water and carefully cake it over the lines of the sigils on the carpet. Once Dean is sure every part of every symbol is covered, Sam chants in Enochian for a few minutes. The guttural language doesn’t sound nearly as good coming from Sam as it does from Cas.

Once the chant is over, Sam hands Dean a lighter. Dean sure hopes this works because if not, they’ll be adding arson to their list of ‘Things that did not go right today.’ Dean flicks his eyes up to the bathroom before touching the flame to the edge of the sigil. Despite not having any physical reason to do so, the lines catch as if they were traced in holy oil. Dean shields his eyes as they flare brightly and then go out, leaving no sign that they were ever there.

“Did it work?” Dean yelps, scrambling to his feet. He’s halfway to the bathroom when Cas steps into the doorway. Rather than stopping though, he crashes into the angel. Cas takes his weight, swaying a little as Dean throws his arms around him and pulls him into a crushing hug. There’s a split second of tension in Cas’ body, and then the angel’s arms are around him, holding him close.

It’s easy to forget that they’re not alone with Cas’ body pressed against him, but then Sam clears his throat and Dean jerks back like he was tased.  “What the fuck, man? You scared the shit out of us,” he exclaims, stepping back so that there is a respectable distance between them.

Cas shrugs apologetically. “My apologies, Dean,” he grumbles. “When I traced the witch to this room, I was not expecting her to have knowledge of spell work that could be used against angels.”  He frowns, cocking his head to the side. “Did she escape?”

Dean nods ruefully. “Yeah. The fourth woman was killed last night. Pretty sure she’s long gone. Gonna have to count this one in the loss column.”

Cas hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Dean, Sam. I failed. I tried—”

Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “It happens. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”  He looks back at Sam, who has been watching the whole thing unfold without comment. The assessing look in his brother’s eyes is unsettling. “I’m sick of this town. Let’s get outta Dodge.”

Although it’s quickly closing in on midnight, none of them want to stay in Hastings a minute longer than they needed to. While Sam packs the supplies back into the trunk, Dean takes the key back to the clerk. “Hope you found what you’re looking for,” the beady eyed man says, barely looking up from the television. Dean grunts a response and heads back out to the car.

There’s a tension running under his skin that Dean can’t shake. The things he said to Cas, the fear that he’d lose Cas completely, and the knowledge that he may never get the nerve to say those things again leave him unsettled and scraped raw. Dean takes a deep breath and pushes the feelings away. He just needs to get some pavement under Baby’s wheels and put this behind them.

He looks up as he crosses the parking lot and realizes the truck is already gone. A sharp ache spears through him when he realizes Cas didn’t even wait for him to come back out before leaving. He can only hope that the angel is headed to the bunker, but it feels like a pointless desire.

Dean yanks the driver’s door open. “I’m gonna drink a six-pack when we get back and sleep for three days,” he mutters, not looking over at Sam as he shoves the key in the ignition. Baby springs to life, but the growl doesn’t sooth him like it usually does.

“Sleeping for three days would be a virtual impossibility, Dean. Especially if you drink a six-pack of beer, as consuming alcohol tends to cause you to need to urinate frequently.”

Dean slams on the brakes before he can back out of the parking space and turns wide eyes on Cas. “Where the hell is Sam?”

Cas squints, tilting his head to the side like an overgrown pigeon and Dean bites back a groan. “Sam suggested that I ride with you. He took the truck and told me to relay a message.”

“A message?”

“Yes. He said to tell you that he would see you in the morning and that you should,” he raises his hands to make air quotes, “pull your head out of your ass.” 

Dean swallows the scathing reply that is on the tip of his tongue and backs out of the space. “Fine,” he mutters, refusing to look at Cas. He should have known from the look on the giant baby’s face that he was planning something.

They’re headed straight down highway 281, two lane blacktop as far as the eye can see, when Cas speaks again. He lowers the blasting Metallica first and turns in his seat to look at Dean. “I think I understand what Sam’s message means.”

Although Dean can see Cas’ expression out of the corner of his eye, he stubbornly keeps his eyes on the road. “Oh yeah?” he grunts.

“Yes,” Cas says evenly. “I’ve been considering it. It is obviously a metaphor, as it is humanly impossible to put your head in your anus. I assume it means that he believes there is some action he wants you to decide to take.” 

Dean huffs a laugh. “Great powers of deduction, Columbo.”

Cas either ignores his jibe or he doesn’t get it. Either way, he continues in a calm voice. “I also assume, given the way he rolled his eyes when he said it, that he believes you know what this action is, and that you have been avoiding taking it.”

Dean tightens his fingers on the steering wheel to stave off the desire to punch Cas in the face. He’s too raw, too unsettled to talk about this now. He’s not spilling his guts when they’ve got forty miles of highway in front of them and he has no way to escape if it all goes to shit. He’ll do it. Once they’re in the bunker, settled and safe, he’ll find a way to have this conversation with Cas, but it sure as shit isn’t happening now.

Cas lets him drive in near silence, James Hetfield’s growl barely audible, for another five miles. When Dean starts to reach for the radio to turn it up again, Cas says conversationally, “That mirror trap spell is quite interesting.”

Dean flicks his eyes to Cas but doesn’t answer.

“On your side, it is a solid pane of glass, impenetrable. I tried speaking to you, but the spell was clearly blocking the sound.”

Dean purses his lips, but he still doesn’t respond. Cas looks down at his hands, resting lightly in his lap, then back up at Dean. Though it’s dark in the car, the headlights of on-coming cars illuminate Cas’ face enough that Dean can see the wariness in his eyes in the short glance he allows himself.

“It was very clever of you to figure out that you could communicate with me by writing notes,” he continues. There is a long pause and Dean wonders if he’s finally given up. Finally, he says softly, “But it was unnecessary.”

Dean jerks his whole head around, glad that this stretch of Nebraska is poker straight so he doesn’t miss a curve and end up in a corn field. “Unnecessary?” he gulps.

Cas nods, then flicks his eyes to the road ahead of them. Dean does the same, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road while his heart pounds in his throat waiting for Cas to answer.

“Unnecessary,” Cas agrees. “You see, although I couldn’t reach through the glass, the spell was clearly designed so that the person on the outside could taunt the captive or give them directions perhaps. I could hear everything.”

“Everything?” Dean breathes, refusing to look over at the angel. He flinches when Cas’ hand suddenly appears on his leg, the weight like a heating pad against Dean’s jeans.

“Every word.” 

Dean swallows, his gut reaction to dissemble, to come up with some way to brush off what he said. His pounding heart pushes him to find some way to shove everything back into a box and slam the lid so that nothing has to change between them. He opens his mouth to stammer an explanation but Cas cuts him off.

“I want that too, Dean,” he says softly, his fingers squeezing gently on Dean’s leg. “I think I’ve always wanted that.”

Dean pulls in a shaky breath, eyes darting over to read the truth on Cas’ face.

“I want to stay in your room and hold your hand, even though I assume Sam wouldn’t care even if I told him,” he says with a small smile. “I don’t need a laptop, but I want to stay. And I want to kiss you. I need you too, Dean.”

There’s a patch of dirt along the side of the road and Baby’s wheels hit it at almost highway speed. Dean slams on the brakes, tires sliding as he brings the heavy car to a violent stop before putting it in park, engine still running. “You mean that?” he whispers, afraid that if he speaks louder, the spell will be broken.

Cas smiles again, a wide, happy grin that lights up his face. “I do, Dean. I want to be with you.” He pops the latch on his seat belt and slides across the bench seat. Dean is still staring at him, wide eyes and wondrous, when Cas leans forward and very, very gently brushes his lips across Dean’s. His lips are soft, slightly chapped, but so warm that the kiss feels like a brand. Before Dean can react, he slides back toward the door and fastens his seatbelt again.

There’s a million things he wants to say. His hands itch to haul Cas back against him and get lost in him. He doesn’t because he knows that once he gets his hands on Cas, it is going to be a very long time before he wants to let go, and they’re sitting in the dark along a long, empty stretch of Nebraska farmland. Instead, he just presses the pads of his fingertips to his lips and puts the car in drive. There’s a bed with a memory foam mattress waiting for them in Kansas. He nods, reaching across the seat to tangle his fingers with Cas’. “Let’s go home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I can't let anything go at a one shot. The idea of what would happen once they got back to the bunker would get out of my head, so . . . . . here you go.

The low rumble of the Impala’s engine reverberates off the walls of the underground garage as Dean comes to a smooth stop. He looks down at where his hand is still clasped in Cas’, fingers intertwined like there’s something commonplace about this. Although he doesn’t want to let go, the car isn’t going to put itself in park.

He carefully pulls away, eyes going to Cas’ face to give him a look that says Dean doesn’t want to let go any more than the angel does, and shuts off the car. They sit silently side by side for a few moments, as if neither wants to open the doors and break the peaceful calm.

Dean feels stripped raw, like the events of the past twenty-four hours scoured his nerve endings with a wire brush. Though it seems silly to doubt Cas’ words now, after everything they’ve been through, it doesn’t stop Dean from wondering if Cas was just trying to spare his feelings. The things Cas had said, what he said he wanted, it seems unbelievable that an angel of the Lord would want those things with a perpetual fuck-up like Dean.

“Would you like to go up?”

Dean jerks out of his thoughts at Cas’ low rumble. He glances to the side at wide crystal blue eyes narrowed in concern.  Cas watches him patiently, as if he’s afraid that one wrong move will scare Dean into bolting. Dean clears his throat and gives a tiny nod. “Yeah, let’s go up.”

The squeak and groan of the Impala’s heavy doors fills the silence, the cavernous space swallowing the sound without echoes. Dean leads the way through the serpentine halls of the bunker until they’re standing in the war room, the giant map table glowing from inside like a night-light.

Dean isn’t sure what to say. He was riding on the emotional high of Cas’ hand in his on the drive home, but now that they’re here, with the bunker settling silently around them, any words he had stick his throat.

Cas watches him, brows drawing together minutely, as if he’s trying to work out the tactical advantages of how to proceed. Given that he’s a millenniums-old warrior, that probably isn’t far from the truth. “You look tired,” he says softly, stepping forward until he’s close enough that Dean can feel his body heat.

Dean lets himself sway toward the warmth with a sigh. Cas only seems to have two gears when it comes to Dean, taking care of him or beating the shit out of him. Dean is exhausted enough that he’s glad Cas decided to go with the first. “Rough day,” he offers, his voice a low rasp in the otherwise quietness of the bunker. Is Sam in his room, or did he decide to vacate the bunker completely tonight?

Cas nods. “You should go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Before he can step away, Dean grasps his wrist, the sleeve of the trench coat bunching under his fingers. “I, uh, I was thinking about taking a shower, but you could wait and we could, uh, talk, or something,” Dean trails off with the realization that Cas is staring down at where Dean is still gripping his arm. With a deep breath, Dean tugs so that Cas steps closer, and he raises one hand to brush his knuckles against Cas’ cheek. Cas raises his eyes to Dean’s with a slight hitch in his breath.

“I’ll wait.”

Dean licks his lips and steps away, releasing Cas’ arm reluctantly. What would Cas do if he pulled him along to the showers and stripped him out of his holy tax accountant get-up? Would he go along with it, just because Dean wanted him to? Would he let Dean soap up his body, get it slick and wet and run his hands all over it, like he’s been aching to do for years? Dean swallows harshly and forces himself to take another step back before he finds out exactly how Cas would react.

Without speaking, he turns and practically sprints to the showers. Though he tells himself he’s not running from Cas, it certainly feels like that’s the case. He cranks the knobs until the water is as hot as he can stand, then strips off his clothes and steps under the spray.

He just stands there, water sluicing over his face, down over his shoulders, and running in rivulets down his legs. If he stays there long enough, if he can turn the water on hot enough, will he be able to wash away the feeling that he’s not good enough for Cas? That any truth behind the words Cas said in the car are a mistake?

He goes through the motions of washing himself, soaping up his hair and scrubbing his body until the heat has his muscles loose and lax under his palms, despite the ghost of tension he feels across his shoulders. The steam makes him light-headed and when he finally turns off the water, he’s more drained than he was before.

Naked other than a clean white towel wrapped around his waist, he makes his way back to his room. When he passes Sam’s room, the door is cracked open and Sam isn’t inside. His mouth goes dry at the thought that Sam was expecting something to happen that he wouldn’t want to be in the bunker for.

Assuming Cas is in the war room where he left him, Dean plans to throw on some sweat pants and a hoodie before going to the angel. He pushes his door open and finds that plan to be unnecessary. Cas sits on his bed, hands folded where they hang between his knees, head down as if he’s praying. He has removed both the trench coat and suit jacket and laid them across the chair in the corner. He looks up when Dean enters, his gaze like a laser where it drags across Dean’s bare chest.

Dean freezes in the doorway, heart beating staccato as he lets Cas look his fill. When Cas finally drags his eyes back up to Dean’s face, he lets himself step into the room and nudge the door closed behind him. “Was expecting you to wait out there.” His voice sounds rough even to his own ears.

“I didn’t want to wait out there,” Cas responds simply.

He walks to the dresser and pulls open the top drawer, Cas’ eyes like a brand on his back. Normally, once inside the room, he would drop the towel and walk around naked while he picks out clothes, but he can’t exactly do that with the angel staring at him. He pulls out a pair of boxer briefs and holds them up like a flag. “You mind if I put some clothes on?”

Cas’ eyes dart to the towel and back to Dean’s face, eyes dilating slightly. “Not at all.”

Dean waits for Cas to look away, to avert his eyes and give Dean some privacy, but he doesn’t. He just stares, his eyes making quick passes up and down Dean’s body. Dean’s skin feels like it’s on too tight.

Fuck it, if that’s the way he wants this to go. Dean tugs at the towel where it’s tucked together to keep it on his hips and lets it drop to the floor. He can’t bring himself to look at Cas while he pulls the underwear up his legs, but the strangled gasp Cas lets out tells him that it had the desired effect.

He turns to the dresser to pull out t-shirt and sweatpants. There’s no sound, no indication that Cas has moved, but when warm hands grip Dean’s hips from behind, he doesn’t startle. It’s almost as if a part of him was expecting it.

Cas’ fingers squeeze gently, thumbs brushing lazily against Dean’s bare skin. Dean waits for what Cas will do next, where does the angel expect this to go? He feels Cas shift slightly, but nothing prepares him for the brush of Cas’ lips against the back of his neck. Cas’ fingers tighten on his hips as if he’s afraid Dean will pull away, but he doesn’t. He just stands rooted in that spot, letting the angel decide the next move.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” Cas murmurs, breath ghosting across Dean’s neck just before Cas presses his nose into Dean’s hairline and breaths in deeply.

Dean wants to put all that behind them, everything that kept them apart, kept them from having this. He knows, though, that words left unspoken have a way of creeping in and ruining things. “But you did,” he makes himself say, even though what he really wants to do is turn in Cas’ grip and kiss him.

Cas tenses then drops his forehead to the back of Dean’s shoulder. “I did. I don’t want to leave you now.”

“But you might.”

Cas sighs, hands settling more firmly, fingers splaying across Dean’s abdomen. “I might have to,” he agrees softly.

Dean releases his grip on the drawer and brings his hands in to cover Cas’. He slides their fingers together, then raises his arm to pull Cas’ hand up. Lips pursed, he presses a gentle kiss to Cas’ palm. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Cas makes a sound that is halfway between a moan and growl, something a feral animal might make, and then Dean is being turned around so that Cas can press him back against the dresser. The drawer pulls dig into his back but the discomfort is inconsequential with the way Cas is attacking his mouth, hands sliding up and down Dean’s sides as if they can’t decide where to land.

The kiss is nothing like the chaste one they shared in the car. This is passion and fire, Cas licking the seam of his lips until he opens under the onslaught and then biting at his lower lip until he can’t tell where he ends and Cas begins. When Cas sucks his tongue into his mouth, Dean’s knees threaten to buckle, so Cas wedges his hands between Dean and the dresser. He gets a firm grip on Dean’s ass and tugs him forward so they’re rutting together.

Any doubt Dean might have had about how far Cas is willing to go is dispelled when he feels the hard length of Cas’ erection grinding against him, hot even through the layers of clothing. Dean wiggles one hand between their bodies and pops the button on Cas’ pants. A quick tug of the zipper, then he’s shoving fabric aside until he can wrap his fingers around Cas’ cock, the smooth skin hot in his hand.

Another growl erupts from Cas’ throat and he assaults Dean’s mouth with even more fervor, tongue fucking into Dean with the same rhythm Dean is using to stroke him. Cas brings one hand up from Dean’s ass long enough to tug Dean’s underwear down, and then it’s Dean that’s growling at the way his dick brushes against his fingers. Widening his grip, he takes them both in hand, jacking their cocks roughly and spreading their combined pre-come up and down the shafts.

Cas throws back his head, eyes glassy. “Dean, I can’t, I’m going to, Dean,” he pants, bowing again to suck at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, lips and tongue and teeth raising what will surely be a bruise by morning.

Dean knows exactly what he means. The creeping warmth spreads through him, driving him to stroke them faster, harder, body arching each time the head of Cas’ cock catches on his. It’s not how he imagined for their first time together. When he allowed himself to think of it at all, he figured he’d take Cas apart slowly, patiently showing the angel how humans love, how close two bodies can get.

He never pictured it like this. Fast, rough, and dirty, with Cas still completely dressed and thrusting into Dean’s hand like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. He didn’t envision Cas sucking a wet line of marks across his collarbone or gripping his ass hard enough to leave bruises so that they can hump against each other.

Orgasm just out of reach, Dean squeezes their dicks together, hand ghosting over the heads then back down. “I got you, it’s okay, come for me, Cas. Wanna feel you, come on, angel, you can do it.”

Cas’ head snaps back, eyes wide and pupils lust blown. He tenses, grinding into Dean’s grip until he goes rigid, erupting over Dean’s hand, coating his stomach and dripping into the top of his shorts. It only takes another few strokes before Dean follows, pleasure white hot and devastating enough to make his legs go weak. He’s never been so glad for Cas’ superhuman strength, as when he realizes the angel is the only thing keeping them both from crumpling to the floor.

He takes a moment, just basking in the pleasant glow of being held in Cas’ embrace. His hand is still wrapped around them, but he doesn’t move it. If he’s too sensitive, so is Cas. He comes back to himself slowly, eyelids fluttering open to find Cas staring at him from just inches away. The angel’s eyes are even bluer than normal and Dean imagines he can see Cas’ grace shining in them.

Aware of their combined release cooling on his hand and dripping into his underwear, Dean raises his hand to wipe it on Cas’ already ruined shirt. Before he can, Cas grabs his wrist and pulls his hand up. The soft, pink tip of his tongue darts out and before Dean can pull away, he’s licking Dean’s hand clean. A strangled moan escapes from Dean at the sight, his dick giving a valiant twitch. That should not be as hot as it is.

“I saw that in a movie,” Cas says slowly. “I was curious what it would taste like.”

Dean raises one eyebrow. “And?”

A tiny smile plays at the corner of Cas’ lips. “I like it. Perhaps next time, I’ll experience it directly from the source.”

The sound Dean lets out is definitely not a whine. Instead of imagining Cas with his lips wrapped around Dean’s cock, he shoves Cas back far enough that he can step out of his ruined underwear. He uses them to wipe down his chest and dab at the smears on the front of Cas’ shirt before tossing them toward the hamper.

“I could use another shower,” he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Cas looks down at his debauched clothes and then back up at Dean. “Perhaps I could join you?”

Dean smiles, heart lighter than it’s been in a while. There’s still so much they haven’t talked about; past hurts they haven’t hashed out. The Darkness is still looming, Rowena is out there with more power than Dean is comfortable with, and Crowley is always lurking around the corner. None of that matters to Dean right now, though. For the first time in maybe forever, he has something right here that’s worth getting lost in. He reaches for Cas’ hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
